


A Long Needed Conversation

by Oakwyrm



Series: Zabdûnel [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Afterlife, Death, Durin Family Feels, Family Dynamics, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Halls of Mahal, Immortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 13:57:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20725319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oakwyrm/pseuds/Oakwyrm
Summary: Durin arrives in the Halls of Mahal for the first time.





	A Long Needed Conversation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sansûkh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/855528) by [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/pseuds/determamfidd). 

> A scattered collection of scenes taking place in the aftermath of the death of Durin the Deathless.  
aka "This was gonna be, like 1000 words but then the OCs got away from me" (story of my fuckin' life right there)
> 
> (the Khuzdul is different here from the Khuzdul found in Sansûkh because I'm using a different dictionary)
> 
> Mouse over Sindarin or Khuzdul to view the translations.
> 
> Durin's children (those which appear in this fic) in order from eldest to youngest;  
1\. Dís, daughter of Amarthandis  
2\. Ámundur, son of Durin  
3\. Dorvari, son of Durin  
4\. Álvur, son of Durin  
5\. Dorin, son of Durin  
6\. Aurin, son of Durin  
7\. Thrárin, child of Durin  
8\. Alvdís, child of Amarthandis  
9\. Bávurin, son of Durin  
10\. Durís, child of Amarthandis  
11\. Frarin, son of Durin  
12\. Althin, son of Durin  
13\. Balin, child of Durin  
14\. Brunin, son of Durin  
*Please note the "child of [insert either parent here]" title is not an indication of assigned gender at birth, it's a personal choice usually based on which parent's name sounds more like the child's.

“Why?” Durin had barely woken in the darkness before he uttered the word, desperate and grieving. “Why did I live so long when my children did not? Four thousand, four hundred, and forty-three years by the count of the Sun watching all my people, my _family_ age and die around me! Why?” He tore at his hair, his unseeing eyes weeping freely.

A great hand settled gently on his head and he stilled though his bones seemed to tremble still in rage and sorrow.

“My son...” The voice that spoke was heavy with grief and achingly familiar. Beloved and long lost. He had only vague memories of it before he went to sleep beneath the stone and it shook him to his core to hear it again. “Truly I am sorry.”

Durin seethed but said nothing as the Smith of the Valar drew a great, rumbling sigh. “Was there no light at all in your life?” he asked gently. Durin ground his teeth but forced himself to answer truthfully.

“My children, for the time they had with me. Khazad-dûm, my pride and joy. My people, my works, and… and my wife.” He did not with surety know if Mahal had been watching him in his time upon Arda or not. Surely he must know, though. He had crafted their children’s souls, after all.

“Ah yes. Quite the unique challenge you decided to saddle me with there, my son,” Mahal said with a spark of humour in his voice. “Fashioning a Dwarven soul for a half-Elven body… I confess I did not see that one coming.”

“Should’ve made me a match, then,” Durin said dryly. Mahal chuckled and the sound seemed to rumble through his bones.

“I do not think I could have made you one more perfectly suited to you,” he said and Durin could not tell if he was joking or not.

“Will I ever see her again?” he asked quietly. Mahal’s great hand gently cupped his face, wiping the tears from his unseeing eyes.

“I am sorry. There is no future I can conceive of where the two of you meet again before the world is ended. I doubt the answer would change much even if you were to ask Eru Himself.”

Durin sucked a breath through his teeth.

“I am sorry, dashat. There is nothing I can do.”

“I understand,” Durin said softly, a weight settling over his heart.

“There is something still that troubles you,” Mahal said softly. Durin grimaced but did not deny it.

“My name. ‘First’ I understand, but I am not quite as Deathless as my appellation would have people believe.”

“Ah…” Mahal heaved another great sigh. “I’m afraid I will ask too much of you, my son, but your people will need you again. Seven times you shall walk upon the earth before your final, true rest may come.”

“Well there’s a cheerful thought,” Durin muttered, his voice heavy with tired sarcasm. “Will I have a normal lifespan for all these other lives?”

“That at least I can promise you.”

“Good.” Durin went near boneless with relief, laying down upon the cold stone again. “Good.”

A thought struck him and he sprang suddenly up, but Mahal interrupted before he could even ask the question;

“You will not see her in any of your later lives,” he said softly, the regret that he could not give better news clear in his voice. “She is an Elf. The loss of your children already weighs heavy upon her heart. Your presence at her side was the only thing keeping her from fleeing across the sea to Valinor. She has already left the mountain. She will come to find her rest in Aman soon I’m afraid.”

“Those who sail do not return…” Durin spoke with a soft bitterness. Mahal laid his great hand on Durin’s head again in comfort.

“Truly I am sorry. In the meantime here is something which may cheer you. There are people here who have waited long years to see you again.” With that Mahal’s presence faded from the chamber and a great noise came barreling towards him. He steeled himself, recognizing it in an instant though it was twice as loud now as it had ever been in life.

“'Adad!” A clear voice rose above the rest and he found himself enveloped in a pair of strong arms, squeezing him almost too tightly, then another and another until all fourteen of his lost children had piled into a colossal group hug.

He laughed a little shakily, reaching blindly for his eldest daughter’s face to draw their brows together.

“And how have you been getting along?” he asked with genuine interest, for each group of seven had never met in life, so far separated were they by time.

“It’s weird,” piped up the youngest of them, Brunin. “I like having an older sister, though. So much better than having older brothers.”

A chorus of offended squawks and amused laughter rang out around him and Durin nearly buckled under his sudden wave of relieved joy. He likely would have fallen had Dís not been there to hold him up.

“Alright, alright!” she barked. “Give him some space, he’ll still be here after he’s had some rest. Here, 'adad.” She wrapped a robe around him and took his arm to lead him out of the sepulchre and to the room that had been prepared for him.

“Thank you, nâtha,” he said softly, letting his exhaustion leak into his voice again. “Keep your siblings at bay for me, will you? I will need a long rest, I’m afraid.”

“Of course,” she said and he could see in his mind's eye the practical nod and the sharp gleam in her eyes. She had always been the leader of the pack, his brilliant little daughter.

“Ah, but it is good to see you,” he sighed.

“I know, 'adad. I know.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Now go, take your rest. I will keep everyone away for as long as I can.”

***

The fourteen of them, nine sons, one daughter, and four who were zu’khazâd, gathered together around a table. Dís took the head, as she had often done over their years of waiting and called the cacophony to order.

“How is he?” Was the immediate question, asked by Frarin, seventh son and eleventh in the overall order. Dís shook her head.

“Tired,” she said, her voice heavy.

“That is to be expected,” sighed Balin, the second youngest of the lot.

“Are you sure I can’t fight Mahal?” asked Dorvari, the third eldest and second son. Dís levelled him with a highly unimpressed look and he raised his hands defensively. “Alright, alright. Just saying our maker deserves a good bop on the nose for this one.”

“We’re not disagreeing with you and I doubt he’d do anything to purposefully harm you but I still don’t think you should go out of your way to find out what happens when you try to punch a Vala,” said Alvdís, eighth in the order and eldest of the second seven.

“I dunno, might be interesting…” mused Dorin, fourth son and fifth child.

“Absolutely not,” Dís said, turning her glare on him.

“Kidding, kidding!” He slid a little further down in his seat. “You’re no fun, nana'.”

“Yes well I grew up with a pack of rabid wolves for siblings, didn’t I?” she said, her eyes sweeping over the side of the table where the six closest in age to her sat. Each of them returned her look with deplorably innocent smiles.

“I don’t know how you survived,” Alvdís muttered quietly.

“Honestly? Neither do I,” sighed Dís before clapping her hands together and silencing all muttering around the table. “So. Our father is with us in the Halls and our mother makes her way to the sea.”

That brought a painful hush over the gathered group. They had always known that death would permanently separate them from her, but at least while Durin still lived they could still see her within the waters of Gimlîn-zâram. As soon as she reached Aman she would be gone from their sight, for the pool existed to watch Arda only.

“She will find comfort there,” Alvdís said quietly, their eyes turned downward. “We have to believe that. It is a healing land.”

“Do you think she’ll smile again?” asked Frarin, his voice painfully small. Their mother had not truly smiled in so many years. The third group of seven, those who yet lived, had brought it back for a time but it had ever faded and grown weaker as they aged before her eyes.

“I hope so,” said Álvur, third son and fourth in the overall order. “She had such a warm smile…” A soft murmur of assent swept around the table.

“When can we see him?” asked Ámundur, the second eldest and first son, ever impatient and restless even in death.

“When he has rested,” Dís said firmly.

“What if he rests through dinner?” asked Althin, twelfth child and eighth son. Alvdís sighed the long-suffering sigh of the eldest child, for so they had been for their entire life.

“If we need to one of us will bring him food but we will _not_ disturb him until he has gathered his strength,” they said and Dís nodded firmly, quelling any protests that might otherwise have risen.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but we can be kind of a lot,” she said mildly. Some general muttering and a few ‘yes’es, ‘alright’s, and ‘we know’s followed her statement.

“Well, if that is all I have a piece in the annealer which should be done,” Durís, the tenth in the order, said as they pushed themself to their feet. Their tone was terse and clipped, their face held in a pinched expression of tightly held emotions. Several of those gathered around the table winced. “It’s the final part of a series and I’m rather keen to see it completed.”

Dís nodded, though she couldn’t quite keep the grimace off her face. “Yes, that’s all for now.” She sat down heavily and her siblings began to disperse, leaving one after the other or in small groups until she was alone at the table. Last to leave her was Alvdís, who sent her a concerned and understanding look over their shoulder before they, too, disappeared out the door. Likely to the Chamber of Sansûkhul. It was a hard thing, to be a Dwarrow whose soul burned for learning and history in such early days when there wasn’t much of the latter to be had. Ever since their death, they had spent as much time in the starlight of Gimlîn-zâram as they possibly could, watching history unfold. Both the good and the bad.

Dís shook herself off and rose, walking with slow steps to her kiln and her clay.

***

“Dís made me promise not to punch Mahal,” Dorvari said in a conversational tone as he set the tray of food down on his father’s bed. Durin nearly choked on nothing. “Still think he deserves it, though.”

“Dashat…” Durin said in a warning tone, so familiar to his son yet a shock to hear directed at him again after so many long years. He sent his father a humourless smile.

“Don’t bother, I’m more intimidated by her than I ever was by you. No offence.”

Durin shook his head fondly. “Then it is as it should be,” he said and reached over to ruffle his son’s hair. “Now leave an old Dwarrow to his food and rest, 'undan. I’m afraid I will make poor company at present.”

Dorvari nodded quietly and paused only briefly to look back before sliding the door shut behind him. Durin sagged back into his bed, his exhaustion nearly knocking him out before he could force himself to eat.

***

“So I’ve been thinking…” said Aurin, the fifth son and sixth in the overall order, at the dinner table once all siblings had gathered to eat.

“Never a good sign,” quipped Brunin. Aurin aimed a kick at him under the table but the angle was wrong and he hit Balin instead, who yelped and sent him their best scandalized and hurt look.

“I’ve been _thinking_,” he repeated, “isn’t Mahal technically our grandfather?”

_That_ statement was met with a stunned silence all around, not a single one of the other thirteen found they had an adequate response ready to hand.

“What’d I say? Never a good sign,” muttered Brunin before quickly stuffing a piece of bread in his mouth to avoid having to participate in the conversation any further.

“I mean he’s got a point…” said Thrárin carefully.

“You always think he’s got a point,” Álvur shot back with a roll of his eyes.

“No, no he’s actually got a point,” said Dorin.

“I’m going to refer back to what Álvur said,” said Dís mildly.

“There’s a first,” he snorted but fell silent at her quelling look.

“You three are a nightmare when you put your heads together so for the sake of my sanity stop it,” she continued as if there had been no interruption.

“Has that ever actually worked?” Alvdís asked. Dís just sighed and shook her head.

“I’m going to go ask him,” said Dorin, already beginning to rise out of his seat. Dís’ hand shot out faster than he could blink to clamp down on his shoulder and force him back into his seat.

“You will do no such thing, you will stay here and you will eat. After that, we can debate the validity of calling our Maker our grandfather to our hearts’ content.”

“I’d rather not,” said Frarin, a nervous hand tugging at his braids. “It’s intimidating enough knowing I can actually talk to him here, I don’t really want to consider anything further.”

“If you want to get _really_ sacrilegious-” said Ámundur with a wicked grin (Frarin and Brunin both promptly clapped their hand over their ears), “so is Ilúvatar.”

“Nope!” said Balin, grabbing their plate and standing in one movement. “Goodbye! I am not going to fall into an existential crisis because you want to argue semantics, goodnight!”

“Yeah! Good plan! I’m following them,” squeaked Frarin. Brunin said nothing but scurried after them anyway. Dís sighed.

“So does this mean I can go talk to Mahal now?” Dorin asked. She groaned but waved him off and he rose with a cheer, quickly followed by Aurin and Thrárin.

“Ámundur… naddith…” she said with a quiet kind of furious exhaustion that had him suddenly tensing in his seat. “I am going to skin you in your sleep.”

***

A knock at their study door brought Alvdís’ head snapping up from their work, a particularly detailed chronicle of their family history. It had for long years now been one of those projects they had been meaning to get started on but never quite found the time for. They squinted at the door in slight suspicion but called for their visitor to enter regardless. Ámundur pushed open the door and shut it quietly behind him.

“Sooo…” he began.

“I am not going to talk to Dís for you,” they said flatly, returning to their writing.

“Oh come on!” Ámundur sank into a chair near the fireplace and sent them a pleading look. “She listens to you! I have such fine skin, I would hate to lose it.”

Alvdís scoffed. “Tough.”

“Please, damzith?”

Their hand jerked, utterly destroying the page they had been writing on with a jagged line of black ink and torn paper. With a soft, muttered curse and a sigh, they set the page aside. They began fresh on a new one, determined to ignore the sound of their heartbeat thudding in their ears.

“Hundreds of years and I am still not used to that,” they said softly.

“Ach, birashagimi, I forget sometimes.” Ámundur stood and drew Alvdís into a half hug, leaning his forehead against theirs. They huffed but did not pull away.

“It's not untrue...” they said quietly. “I should be used to it by now.”

“Take your time. We are in no hurry,” Ámundur said with wry humour. Alvdís huffed a half-hearted laugh and shoved his shoulder.

“Dís won’t stay angry with you for long,” they said, returning to the topic at hand. “She never does.”

“True but while she _is_ angry her glare is enough to burn the beard off my face!” Ámundur complained.

“Should have thought about that before you pulled the dragon's tail, eh nadad?”

“Fine, leave me to my cruel fate, but I am blaming every piece of lost skin on you!” he said through a laugh. Alvdís rolled their eyes and rose to gently but firmly guide their brother out of their study.

“Your skin and your beard will be fine,” they said. “You are making a dragon out of a frog and you know it.”

Ámundur sighed and shook his head. “Izul kuthu thaiku tasgiriki uthak kataba buhâhu kusut,” he said with the utmost solemnity. Alvdís snorted and shut the door in his face.

***

Durin sighed as he took a seat next to the great anvil. Mahal paused his work, setting his great hammer and tongs down in order to shift his full attention to his first son.

“How have my children been, truly?” Durin asked, looking up at his Maker. Mahal’s heart wept for the exhaustion he saw in those shining blue eyes and further for knowing he could not yet give his son the rest he truly deserved.

“Three of them just visited me to ask if they could call me sigin'adad so they seem in as good spirits as ever,” Mahal said, his tone warm and merrier than his heart.

Durin laughed, his first honest laugh in years. “Let me guess, Dorin, Aurin, and Thrárin?”

Mahal nodded. “You know your children well.”

“Rascals, even now,” Durin said fondly, shaking his head. “And what did you say?”

“I told them they could if they wished.” Mahal picked up his great hammer again to continue his work. “All the khazâd are my children, but I suppose when thinking of it in mortal lines I am the nearest to a grandfather that they have.”

“Balin is not going to like that…” Durin said with quiet contemplation. “Never did like thinking about the big questions, that one. Neither is Frarin, too timid and always so self-conscious…” He tugged at his beard in uneasy thought. There had always been those of his children who would greatly have preferred being born further down the line, further removed from their legendary father and the impassable shadow he cast.

“As I hear it Brunin fled with them out of the mess hall when this topic was first brought up for debate.”

“Did he?” Durin frowned. “Perhaps we have then found the one thing that can rattle my kurkaruk.”

“He will not stay rattled long,” Mahal mused. “I made him far more bendable than most of his siblings. He will spring back, as he ever does.”

Durin nodded. A deep sadness shone in his eyes. “I don’t think I can ever thank you enough for giving him that gift.”

***

Durís roared and kicked a large chunk of fallen stone into the nearby wall. Bávurin, ninth in the overall order and sixth son, didn’t so much as flinch, his eyes still utterly focused on his work. Behind him, his younger sibling groaned in frustration and sank into a half-finished marble throne in the corner.

“I don’t like this,” they grumbled. “I don’t- Agh! It’s not-” their speech dissolved entirely into incoherent frustrated muttering.

“You knew it was coming,” Bávurin reminded them in his soft but earth-shatteringly deep voice.

“Why are you so calm!?” they demanded angrily, springing from the throne as if it had burned them. “You agreed with me, didn’t you?” they faltered slightly at the end, their dark eyes, so very similar to their mother’s, wide and lost.

“Frarin agreed with you,” he corrected coolly.

Durís huffed and crossed their arms. “That’s different. Frarin loves him,” they spat. Bávurin raised an eyebrow.

“So do you.”

They reeled as if he had struck them. “I-”

They faltered. “No, no you’re supposed to be on my side!”

“Neutral party,” he grunted.

“Then why… You hardly even _spoke_ to him! _Everyone_ thought you hated him!”

That caught his attention properly and he stood, turning to face them fully. “He gave me no good reason to hate him. He raised me well, loved me, let me be and did not attempt to take my choices from me. Why should I hate him?”

Durís grit their teeth. They could easily hear the challenge beneath those words. _He raised you well, loved you, and let you make your own choices __even __when they hurt him__. He gave you no _good_ reason to hate him_.

“I-” they faltered again. “I don’t even remember why we fought.” It came out all in a rush, a quiet pained whisper as they sank to the floor.

“I kept thinking ‘It’s his fault, it’s his fault’ over and over. If he’d just _listened_, if he’d only agreed with me I’d never have left the mountain I’d never-” their voice broke and they looked down at their hands. So young, so very young, barely seventy-nine. The only one of Durin’s children to be taken so young, the first of the second seven to go into the Halls.

“He wept like the world was ending when they delivered my body back home,” they said quietly. “I know you all think I don’t know but I was there, I saw him. I just didn’t want to acknowledge it. Didn’t want to acknowledge that maybe he was right.”

Their eyes shone with tears, their mouth drew into a thin, unhappy line. “I died for _nothing_.”

Bávurin drew them into a soft embrace. “Ah, lalkhith,” he said, a gentle but kindly chiding in his voice. Durís half-laughed, half-sobbed into his jacket.

“Ya dun’ have t’ remind me,” they choked out. He began to rub a soothing circle into their shoulder. “It’s not fair. I had so much I wanted to do. I didn’t want to _die._” Their voice was so painfully small and young. Bávurin sighed.

“No one does, damzith,” he reminded them gently. Only ten years his junior yet he had grown to be near three-hundred years older than they ever would be. “No one does.”

***

Álvur and Althin, for all that they had never known each other in life, had become remarkably close after Althin’s death. One would not think it when comparing the two of them, Álvur ever the schemer and Althin a loyal and trusting warrior to his core, but they got on like a house on fire. Much to Dís continued dismay, for the trait they seemed to bond most readily over was their distinct predilections for getting themselves into trouble.

“You’re the older one, aren’t you supposed to be responsible in situations like this?” Althin grumbled as he pressed a cold jug of water to his much older brother’s forehead. Álvur could do little more than send him a withering look before he turned his face back into his pillow and groaned.

“Sorry to bother you with this, Althin, but I’m a little pressed for time at the moment,” said Bera, Álvur’s wife as she rushed by, putting the final clasp in her braids even as she had one foot out the door.

“W’r _dead_!” groused Álvur, his voice muffled by his pillow.

“I’m aware, dear,” Bera said a mite sardonically. “Death won’t soon stop me from fulfilling my social obligations. Take care, you two.” She turned back to press a quick kiss into Álvur’s hair and sent Althin another grateful look before she vanished out the door and shut it behind her as softly as she could.

Althin turned his eyes back to Álvur and sighed. “Now what did you go and do this for, nuddel?” he asked softly. “You’re old enough to know how much ale you can drink and still walk come morning.”

“'Adad’s dead.” Álvur’s reply was muttered into his pillow so quietly Althin almost didn’t hear it. “He’s dead ‘n 'amad is leavin’ ‘n li’l Havdís is Queen ‘n I don’t know w’ht ‘t do wit m’self an’more.”

“He’s been old for a while,” Althin said, gently tugging at one of Álvur’s fraying braids.

“Yeah too long!” Álvur exploded, sitting up suddenly only to wince and sway dangerously. “Didn’t think he’d actually… but o’ course he _did_, he’s no’ an Elf!” he rubbed at his eyes and took the jug of water gratefully from Althin’s hands and drank down three large gulps of the cool water.

“Ach, ‘n I’ve alr’dy talked th’s t’ death wit Bera ‘n still I can’t le’ it rest,” he groaned, splashing the rest of the jug’s contents onto his face and the bed.

“I understand how you feel,” Althin said quietly. “Better than Bera, I think.”

“Now, don’t get me wrong!” he hurried to add at Álvur’s dangerous look. “No insults meant to your Lady, she is as good a Dwarrowdam as any could ask for, but she never really knew him as more than her father-in-law who sent presents for the little ones, right?”

Álvur inclined his head and made a grunting noise that Althin took to mean his protests had been quelled.

“For us… probably even more for you first seven…” Althin sighed and ran a hand through his messy locks. “We’ve been dead for so long, and he’s just gone on living for years and years. It… did get to a point where I forgot he actually _could_ die.”

“I’ll drink to that,” muttered Álvur, his voice sounding a little clearer as he wiped the water from his eyes. Then he winced. “On second thought, maybe not.”

“Yes I think you’ve had enough to last you the next century at least,” Althin said.

Álvur let slip a miserable groan and buried his head in his hands. “'Amad is _leaving_,” he near-wailed. Althin grimaced.

“Aye, she is,” he said softly and his eyes gained a far-away look.

Álvur didn’t seem to notice, his own voice gaining a wistful note as he said; “I still remember when it was jus’ the nine of us, you know? Just eight Dwarves an’ an Elf in the mountain and now she’s leaving and we’ll never see her again.”

Althin smiled a small, sad smile. “Have I ever told you how jealous I was?”

Álvur frowned, looking up into Althin’s startlingly blue eyes.

“You had that time. Just you nine, no one else. When I was born Khazad-dûm was already a kingdom. I was a Prince. 'Adad and 'amad had duties they needed to see to. They made time for all of us, yes, but we never had what you had.”

“Didn’t even think of that…” Álvur said softly.

“Would you tell me about them? What they were like when Khazad-dûm was still barely more than a dream?”

Álvur nodded and straightened his back. He shifted over to give Althin space to sit down next to him and his younger brother sank quickly into his side, latching onto him. Álvur steeled himself and began to tell the tale as he remembered it, of starlit years and slow work and laughter beneath the mountain.

***

“-Álvur’s drunk himself into a stooper and I’m decently certain Durís tried to pulverise Bávurin’s workshop,” Dorvari finished his report. His dark blue eyes stared out over the landscape that stretched in front of him, a dark frown tugging on his brow. The mountains looked so small in the distance, now.

“You know she can’t hear you, right?” Ámundur said in a flat tone, his eyes fixed on their mother. She had been weeping, that much was clear from the redness in her eyes and the wetness of her cheeks. Dorvari’s face contorted into an ugly grimace and he turned to glare at his elder brother.

“Do _not_,” he seethed, his voice full of fury, “ruin this for me.”

Ámundur jerked back slightly, his eyes startled.

Dorvari sighed. All at once his anger bled out to be replaced by a feeling of heavy sorrow. “You do not have to remind me. I am well aware of how the pool works by now.”

“I am sorry, naddith,” Ámundur said softly, reaching over to gently tug on one of Dorvari’s many braids. “I seem to be putting my foot in it with spectacular frequency recently.”

Dorvari did some cursory grumbling and waved Ámundur’s hand half-heartedly from his hair. His eyes turned back to their mother in her travel gear, a small pack filled with essentials and such mementoes as she could not bear to part with at her side.

“Do you think they’ll receive her?” he asked, worry further creasing his brow. Ámundur opened his mouth to answer but a mirroring frown crossed his brow and he stayed silent.

Dorvari snorted though there was no humour in his face.

“Surely…” Ámundur said, looking back to their mother with clear worry in his eyes. “Surely they have to, right?”

“Do they really? She was the Queen of Khazad-dûm,” Dorvari pointed out. Ámundur grimaced. They had both seen how things had deteriorated between Dwarves and Elves over the long years since their deaths. At first slowly and then all at once.

“It is not the Elves who rule in Valinor,” he said firmly. “She is one of the Eldar and beyond that, she is one of the oldest Elves who yet lives. They _have_ to receive her.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Dorvari, though his face spoke his doubt as clearly as the tone in his voice. Ámundur’s eyes hardened.

“They have to,” he growled out through clenched teeth, his eyes burning. “Or so help me I will find a way out of these Halls just so I can punch every last one of them in their shiny, judgemental faces.”

Dorvari bumped his shoulder against Ámundur’s, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You know, I almost believe you.”

“Good,” Ámundur said, drawing himself up and squaring his shoulders. “You should. I’m a Dwarrow of my word.” Dorvari laughed and, choked by tears though it was, it was a true laugh.

“Tell that to the dining table in the royal quarters of Khazad-dûm,” he said. “Wasn’t it you who promised to fix that? And aren’t they _still_ propping up one of the legs with a stone block?”

“It is _not_ my fault no one’s fixed it since I died,” Ámundur protested.

“Yeah, because it’s been that way for as long as anyone save 'amad can remember!”

“It is very clearly broken, they could fix it if they wanted to!”

The two of them, the eldest sons of Durin long since gone into stone, stared at each other for a beat. Then Ámundur’s control broke and he doubled over with helpless laughter and Dorvari was not far behind, leaning on his brother’s back to keep himself somewhat upright.

***

The restless tap of charcoal against paper was the only sound that filled the room. It was Frarin’s art studio, though at that moment it served as more a small gathering place. The artist himself sat in a corner, the sketch he had started well and truly abandoned as he continued to absent-mindedly tap his charcoal against it.

“Well, that’s torn it,” sighed Balin, who was leaning back against the wall by the door. They tugged agitatedly at their beard as they spoke. “'Adad’s dead, 'amad’s leaving, Khazad-dûm has a new ruler for the first time in history, and Mahal’s our grandfather. If I have to stomach much more change I’ll find a way to die twice, mark my words!”

“It’s not so bad,” Brunin said uncertainly. “We can talk to 'adad again. And Havdís will make a good Queen. We’ve watched her long enough to know that, right?”

Frarin nodded quietly and resisted the urge to start chewing on his charcoal.

“And I mean technically we’re all Mahal’s children anyway so what’s it really matter if Dorin, Aurin, and Thrárin are running about calling him sigin'adad?” Brunin continued, though he sounded less than convinced by his own point.

“I’d still prefer not to think about that,” Frarin spoke up, a deep frown etched into his brow.

“I notice you didn’t mention 'amad at all in your supposed good points,” said Balin, one eyebrow raised in challenge. Brunin glowered at them.

“Alright! We’re never gonna see our mother again and everything is terrible and nothing in the world will ever be right again! Is that what you want me to say?” he snapped. He screwed his eyes shut and wrapped his arms around himself as if to physically hold himself together.

In an instant, Frarin’s sketchbook clattered to the floor and he rushed over to pull his younger brother into a tight hug. Balin faltered, their posture going slack. All tension bled out of them at their shock in seeing Brunin so affected.

“Kakhf,” they muttered. “Birashagimi, I did not mean that.”

Brunin wiped at his eyes and nodded resolutely. “'M fine.”

“No you’re not,” Frarin said, gently knocking his forehead against Brunin’s. “It is not a weakness.”

Brunin drew a great, shuddering breath.

“Even the liveliest spring can dry up under the wrong circumstances, Kâlahusran,” Frarin said, so quietly it was near inaudible. Brunin stilled abruptly and closed his eyes. A brief tremor ran through his body.

“I put off thinking about it for too long,” he said after a long silence. “I wasn’t ready.”

Balin placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “None of us were, naddith.” They shared a look with Frarin over Brunin’s head. Dark eyes met blue in silent understanding. Both held within them deep exhaustion and sorrow beyond what could be put to words.

***

“No that’s not right…” a frustrated mumble from Thrárin had Dorin and Aurin looking up in a combination of curiosity and concern. They were scratching out a line of their work with one hand, the other fiddling restlessly with one of the pegs on their fiddle.

“You’re going to snap the string,” Aurin said mildly and Thrárin abruptly jerked out of their mood, their hand falling from the fiddle and their entire posture drooping as they sank into their chair.

“What is it that’s got you so wound up, anyway?” Dorin asked, peering at the desk as best he could from his vantage point. Thrárin hastily slammed their notebook shut.

“It’s not done,” they grumbled and stowed away the notebook in a drawer of their desk. “My concentration is slipping.”

Aurin made a small noise in the back of his throat and shook his head. “Of course it is. Our world’s turned completely on its head and we’ve all got to find our feet again. Are you really surprised your words are fleeing you?”

Dorin and Thrárin both blinked at him in undisguised surprise.

Aurin glowered at them. “I will have you know I resent this shocked silence.”

Dorin held up his hands. “Fair, fair. But when did my baby brother grow so wise?” He reached over to ruffle Aurin’s hair and Aurin batted him off with an indignant squawk.

“I’ve always been wise, thank you very much,” he huffed and crossed his arms. Thrárin snorted inelegantly and Aurin turned his glare pointedly on them.

“If you insist,” they quipped, a sliver of their usual brightness returning to their eyes before they abruptly turned serious again. “Thank you.”

Aurin sighed and moved to pull them into a tight embrace. “Just speaking my mind. No need to go thanking me for that.”

Dorin sighed and wrapped himself around both of his younger siblings. “Will we ever see her again, do you think?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Aurin said and his arms tightened around Thrárin. “I never did listen closely enough when she’d talk about her people.”

If Dorin and Thrárin noticed how his eyes misted over and his voice tightened as he spoke they were tactful enough not to comment on it.

***

The knock at Dís door came late in the night, quite beyond the time she would usually be alright with it. Beside her Askur, her spouse, groaned and sat up, their great head of hair in utter disarray.

“Wh’s ‘at?” they asked, squinting at the door.

Dís gently patted their shoulder. “Probably for me, darling, go back to sleep,” she said quietly as she slid out of bed and pulled on her robe. Askur did not need to be told twice, they collapsed back onto their side of the bed like a marionette with its strings cut. Not even a second later their soft, rumbling snores could already be heard.

Dís shook her head fondly and opened the door as quietly as she could, slipping out into the corridor before she even checked who would disturb her at such an unholy hour.

When she _did_ pause to take stock, however, her heart plummeted into her boots.

Alvdís stood there in their sleeping clothes, shivering despite the robe wrapped around their shoulders. Their face was a mask of grief, tear tracks running down their cheeks and they were sniffling. Her heart cracked slightly in her chest and she reached out to pull them close.

“Now what’s this?” she asked as gently as she could.

“I’m sorry,” Alvdís whispered into her shoulder. “I tried. I promise I tried. I can’t be strong like you.” The shaking calmed somewhat but they were crying again. Dís released a long sigh and lifted her hand to gently scratch at Alvdís scalp in that way that always helped them relax.

“There’s no need,” she whispered. “It’s alright. Just let it out.”

They stayed there in the corridor until Alvdís had gathered themself enough to follow Dís to her pottery studio. There Dís sat them down and vanished for a moment only to return with two mugs of steaming hot tea.

“Now tell me what brought this on,” she said as she sat down and handed one mug to Alvdís.

“I can’t-” they hesitated. “You’re the only one I can talk to like this. I have to be strong for the younger ones and of the older…” they trailed off and bit their lip.

Dís sighed softly. “It’s alright, I know our siblings. My bunch… you’re still not quite comfortable with them, are you?”

Alvdís nodded hesitantly. “It’s not… anything they did, they’re all good people if sometimes a bit chaotic but… You all watched me grow up and I didn’t even know you were there. You’re my older siblings and I always knew about you but talking to all of you feels like talking to ghosts.”

Dís mouth quirked in a small, amused smile.

“Yes, I realise what I said,” Alvdís retorted with a huff and a roll of their eyes. “You’re the eldest so you understand me better than the others… There’s really no one I can talk to about this but you.”

Dís frowned suddenly. “Do I need to have a talk with Eindri?” she asked, a hint of a threat in her voice. Alvdís nearly choked.

“Blessed Mahal _no_!” they hurried to say, shaking their head vehemently. “No, no. He would help me with this if he could but…” they trailed off.

“He can’t,” Dís said with soft understanding.

“He doesn’t understand. Eindri wasn’t even born yet when Telphor died and he’s so far down the line that all his closest relatives… Well.” They shrugged miserably.

“They all had perfectly normal lives.” Dís smoothed the hair back from Alvdís’ face.

“He’s not even royalty, you know?” they sniffled, but a small smile was beginning to break through their upset.

“I know,” she said with an answering smile on her lips. “I do believe you used to tease him about that being what drew you to him in the first place.”

“Shut up,” Alvdís muttered into their tea, but there was a laugh in their voice.

“You are not weak because you ask for help,” Dís said softly. “It is a sign of strength, and I will _always_ be here for you to talk to. As are all our other siblings. Yes, even those younger than you.” She squeezed their hands and they nodded.

“I am trying,” they said.

“You are succeeding,” she corrected gently. “Your coming to me tonight proves that, and I am so proud of you.”

“Damzith,” they whispered so quietly she almost missed it.

“I’m sorry?”

“I…” they fidgeted slightly. “You may call me damzith. I know you wish to, the end of that sentence felt positively hollow.”

She smiled and knocked their forehead gently against her own.

“Very well. I am so proud of you, damzith.”

Alvdís breathed out a shaky breath but smiled. “That wasn’t so bad. But the others’re still barred from using it for at least a year.”

“That’s fair.”

***

“Are you sure you are ready?” Dís asked, settling a sturdy hand on her father’s shoulder. Durin shot her a rueful look but took a seat anyway. She followed him without question as the stars rose to draw them back to Arda.

They were gentle as the first lightly fallen snow of winter. Dís barely had to blink at all to bring the sight back to her eyes. Durin stumbled a little and she was struck once again by how odd it was to see him restored as he was. She had grown so used to his old, wrinkled face and snow-white hair.

“There she is,” he breathed and Dís turned. They were in a wood, though no wood that any Elves inhabited by the looks of it. Amarthandis had set up camp beneath a great tree and she was leaning back against it, her eyes closed as she listened to the sounds of the forest around her.

“Oh but she has dimmed so.” Durin put his head in his hands, overcome by a sudden despair.

“Strength, 'adad,” Dís said. Her hand once again found his shoulder to squeeze it in silent support. “She makes her way towards the sea.” Dís could not hide the way her voice shook as she spoke those words.

Durin covered her hand with his, his bright eyes turned to her. “Ah, my brave daughter. How many have you had to comfort recently?”

Dís’ answering smile was tight. “Surprisingly few, you’ll find. I am well, 'adad. I have Askur at my side still. I have not been so wholly without comfort as you think.”

“That is good to hear,” Durin said and squeezed her hand.

Dís tore her eyes from him and looked to her mother where she rested beneath the tree. She looked tired. More tired than Dís had ever seen her for this was more than just mere bodily exhaustion. Grief weighed heavy on her mind.

Dís stepped away from Durin to stand closer to Amarthandis. She pressed her hand to her heart and bowed her head.

“Garo lend vaer, nana,” she whispered, the liquid syllables of Sindarin falling from her tongue as easily as the deeper, sturdier sound of Khuzdul did. “Hortho le huil vaer.”

Durin drew her close and she turned to him. Her face pressed into his shoulder as she took a great, shuddering breath.

“Brave girl,” her father whispered as he folded his arms around her. “My brave, brave girl. She was always so proud of you, I hope you remember that.”

The only response she gave was a small choked sound that might have been an ‘aye’.

***

The day eventually came when Durin entered the waters of Gimlîn-zâram and found that Amarthandis had set sail. He could still stand at her side, for she was not in Aman yet, but the time was fast approaching when he would look his last upon her.

He steadied himself against a sorrow that would swallow him whole if he let it and reached for her. His hand hovered over her cheek and he let himself for a moment believe the illusion that he was truly touching her once more. But it was only an illusion.

With a soft sigh, he withdrew his hand and sat down beside her.

“Ships, eh?” he asked and knocked on the wood beneath him. “Can’t say as I was ever too fond of them. But I suppose I’ll forgive this one. It’s bringing you to a better place, isn’t it?”

He looked up into her fair face and beheld the unspeakable sadness in those dark, beloved eyes.

“You go and find rest now, amrâlimê. Find that smile of yours again, eh?”

He shook his head and a great sigh tore out of his throat. “Ach, mesmel, meleth e-guilen!” he spoke, powerful yet soft as a whisper. “Unad nuithatha i nîr e-guren nalú aderthad vín.”

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the railing of the ship. Softly, so softly he almost thought he had imagined it at first, she began to sing.

“_The world was young, the mountains green,_  
_No stain yet on the Moon was seen,_  
_No words were laid on stream or stone_  
_When Durin woke and walked alone...”_

Her voice, high and Elven-fair, seemed so odd to sing such a song and yet as ever, he could find no fault in it. The song itself was recently composed, so very new. Written as the news spread through Khazad-dûm that he lay dying. The final verse which would exist in later days was not yet thought of as more than a shadow of an evil dream.

He leaned back and listened, letting her fair Elvish voice envelop him as the stars carried him back to the Halls.

**Author's Note:**

> **Khuzdul**  
dashat – son  
'adad – father  
nâtha – daughter  
zu'khazâd – nonbinary, gender-neutral (pl.) (lit: Whole Piece Dwarves)  
nana' – sister  
'undan – greater/greatest boy  
naddith – little brother  
damzith – little sibling  
birashagimi – I’m sorry (lit: I regret)  
nadad – brother  
Izul kuthu thaiku tasgiriki uthak kataba buhâhu kusut – Only when the mine collapses does the miner know his true friends. (In times of trouble one learns the true nature of his friends.)  
sigin'adad – grandfather  
khazâd – dwarves  
kurkaruk – tiny raven (affectionate diminutive)  
lalkhith – young fool  
nuddel – brother of all brothers  
'amad – mother  
kakhf – shit  
Kâlahusran – Spring (of the water veriety) Dancer  
amrâlimê – my love  
mesmel – jewel of all jewels
> 
> **Sindarin**  
Garo lend vaer – Have a good journey  
Nana – Mom  
Hortho le huil vaer – May useful winds speed you on  
Meleth e-guilen – Love of my life  
Unad nuithatha i nîr e-guren nalú aderthad vín – Nothing will stop the weeping of my heart until our reunion


End file.
